by Paul D

Created on: April 06, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Golden Boy

At school assembly commencing my lower 6th year (equivalent to U.S 11th grade, I think) the headmaster (U.S. translation: principal), informed us that one of our number would be henceforth running a school society or two, and was, indeed, a boy of remarkable prospects. How this had been determined was not clarified, or at least is beyond my recollection. I assume the boy's father, who was also a headmaster, vouchsafed his son's extraordinary potential in closed door headmaster-to-headmaster meetings, and petitioned for commensurate special treatment to nurture his son's latent abilities. Any boys in the assembly (it was an all-boy school) paying attention would almost certainly have first, sneered at this 'la-di-da' pretentiousness, and secondly, discarded it from their minds; to be replaced by more pressing concerns such as 'in which room is my first class?' and 'what is that smell coming from the kitchen?'

The only school society transpiring from this auspicious announcement was the 'Music Appreciation Society'. It wasn't obvious, particularly to the sneerers, how organizing the MAS could be a sign of greatness. True, school societies had hitherto been initiated and run by teachers (or as we referred to them, 'masters'). And unlike existing societies dedicated to traditional academic interests such as debating, drama and chess, MAS celebrated pop/rock music. But still, couldn't any one of us have done it, if only we could have been bothered?

The 'Music Appreciation Society' instantly became the most popular society in the school. Admittedly this is not saying a whole lot, as school societies were relics of a former age, in which swats gathering in enthusiastic exchange of shared interests and ideas must have been the latest cool thing. But MAS required only that the acolyte show up each week for about an hour at lunch time to listen to a new album under the aegis of our resident golden boy. His role was merely to select and procure the week's album, and play it; although playing a record did involve a series of rituals, such as removing the disc from the inner sleeve with a finger in the middle hole and a thumb on the outer rim, wiping it with a dust cloth, placing it carefully on the turntable, and performing the precarious feat of 'putting the needle on the record'. It was at these meetings of music aficionados that I was introduced to such luminaries as Steely Dan and Bad Company, and first heard Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here'.

Soon after the

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